


Only Congealed Snow

by pearl_o



Category: Hard Core Logo (1996)
Genre: Backstory, M/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-08-11
Updated: 2007-08-11
Packaged: 2017-10-03 19:40:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pearl_o/pseuds/pearl_o
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Billy's always cold.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Only Congealed Snow

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to brooklinegirl.

It was snowing again when Billy left the market. Huge fluffy flakes, like a Christmas card, not sticking but just melting as soon as they hit the sidewalk. He gripped the paper bag with one hand and used the other to pull the two sides of his coat tighter around himself.

It was three blocks back to the apartment. The tread was mostly worn off his sneakers, and there were still remnants of ice on the sidewalks and piles of slush pushed off to the side everywhere from the ice storm last weekend. It didn't even matter that he was trying to walk carefully -- all it took was one wrong step, avoiding an asshole trying to crash into him, and he had a shoe full of melting snow and a cold wet sock. He cursed Joe under his breath.

The homeless guy outside their building yelled out, "Hey, William, you cuntrag!" as Billy came up to the front door. Billy made a face at himself in the mirror in the lobby and ignored the broken elevator to go to the stairwell and climb up the four stories to their place.

The entire floor smelled like mildew and cigarette smoke. "Home sweet home," Billy muttered. He nudged the door to their apartment open with his shoulder -- Joe never bothered to lock it -- and went inside.

It was warmer in here than it was outside, but not by much. One of the windows was broken, wouldn't close all the way; both of them were covered by sheets he and Joe had taped up to the walls to keep the light out. That didn't leave any bedding for the actual bed, but that was a pretty fancy name, anyway, for what amounted to a dirty mattress on the floor in the corner.

Joe was on the mattress when Billy came in, lying on his back completely naked, with one leg stretched out and one bent at the knee. His arms and legs were muscular, better than Billy's, but he was totally soft around the middle, the bulge of his chest and stomach. His little pink cock and balls were hanging out in the cold while he smoked a cigarette.

"Put on some clothes, you dink," Billy said, dumping his bag down on the counter. "No one wants to see that."

"Fuck you," said Joe, "I'm perfectly fucking comfortable."

Billy unwrapped his scarf from around his neck and took off his coat, dumping them both on the floor next to him. "What happened to Wendy the Slut?"

"Band practice."

Wendy the Slut was Joe's latest girlfriend. She was a foot shorter than Joe and skinnier than Billy, so skinny her bones stuck out a little like toothpicks from her skin. Billy had walked in on them having sex a couple times; it always made him think of Joe fucking a corpse. She had stringy black hair, a homemade nose piercing, and her face was sharp as a knife. She spit on Billy every time she saw him, which was probably one of the things that endeared her to Joe. She was the lead singer in a crappy chick band that was doing really well around town lately -- a hell of a lot better than Hard Core Logo, anyway.

Though that was going to change soon, because at least he and Joe could _play_ and _write_. They were gonna be huge.

Billy unloaded the groceries onto the counter: carton of smokes, six-pack of beer, roll of toilet paper, can of coffee, jar of peanut butter. He checked the drawer for clean silverware, but it was empty, so he grabbed a spoon from the sink full of dirty dishes and rinsed it off and wiped it dry on his sweater. He grabbed the peanut butter and headed across the room to collapse on the mattress beside Joe.

"I got your fucking dinner, asshole," he said, tossing the jar at Joe. Joe didn't catch it; it rolled on the mattress between them. Billy picked it up again and unscrewed the top and removed the seal, crumpling it up in his hand and throwing it across the room. He sucked a glob of peanut butter off the spoon and then passed it over to Joe. Joe stubbed out his cigarette on the plate next to the mattress that they used for an ashtray. He held the peanut butter but didn't take any yet.

"What did you do with the mail from earlier?" Billy said, when his mouth was clear.

"Junk mail. Burned it," said Joe shortly. He grabbed the spoon and stabbed the peanut butter, taking an extra large spoonful and stuffing it into his mouth, smiling at Billy through the crap.

"There was something from your ma in there, wasn't there?" said Billy. It sounded like a question, but he and Joe both knew it wasn't. Joe was still chewing; he raised one eyebrow at Billy like he thought it was funny.

"She sent you another fucking check, didn't she?"

Joe smiled at him with peanut butter stuck to the corners of his mouth. "I don't know, Bill. Didn't open it before I got out the lighter."

"You fucking cunt," Billy said. He reached out to punch Joe's shoulder, hard, which was the closest thing in reach. "What the fuck is wrong with you? We need money."

Joe kicked out at him in return, but it couldn't do much damage when he was barefoot. "I don't need anything they got, Bill. Fuck them and fuck the Mulgrew family fortune. I don't need their guilt money."

"Fuck you. Fuck _you_." Billy stood up off the mattress. The wind was building up outside; it was getting colder in here. Even with his too-big thrift store sweater, Billy was chilled -- he was going to have to sleep in his coat again tonight. He wanted to wrap his arms around his chest, but he resisted. Joe was still lying there spread out like a fucking sunbather.

"Don't get your panties in a bunch," said Joe. "Jesus Christ, you're high-strung. Check out the fridge. Grab me a beer while you're over there, would you?"

There was a check stuck to the fridge with an ugly magnet. It was made out to Joseph Mulgrew from Wendy Majerski to the tune of two months rent.

Billy stared at it for a couple of seconds, half-afraid it would disappear if he looked away.

"See?" Joe said from the corner. "I'm a fucking provider. I'm the breadwinner here."

Billy turned around slowly. "So you won't take a dime from your folks, but Wendy the Slut, you're willing to bleed her dry?"

"Fuck you, she can afford it," said Joe. "And there's a fucking world of difference there, Billiam. I take their money, they own me. I don't owe her a thing."

Billy said, "Your head is a fucked up place." He grabbed two beers and went to sit down by Joe again.

"You love it," Joe said, sitting up and taking one of the cans from Billy's hand. Billy popped his open and chugged down half the can, before he stopped to take a deep breath and wipe off his mouth with the back of his hand.

"You think you can get through life without anybody owning you," Billy said slowly, "you're even more fucked up than you look."

Joe just grinned at him, a sharp smile showing all his teeth, and didn't say a word. Billy shook his head and took another swig of his beer.

"She left some weed here, too, so we can smoke up before the gig tomorrow night," Joe said.

"Christ, what is she, living here now, Joe? Did the bitch leave any other presents I should know about?"

"I'm pretty sure she left some dirty panties in the john. Wanna wear them for me?"

"Fuck off," said Billy. He put his beer down on the floor and lay down diagonally across the mattress.

Joe leaned over and kissed him hard on the forehead. Joe's kisses always felt a lot like his punches. With most people Billy didn't like those touches, the ones he couldn't control: they could look all they wanted, but anything more, and he should be the one in charge, the one saying exactly when and what and how much, portioning himself out.

Joe, though -- Joe touched him all the time, did whatever the hell he wanted. And Joe's touches were a hell of a lot more demanding, too, claiming stuff maybe Billy didn't want to give, except that this was Joe, the other half of who he _was_, and this was just the way things were and the way they were always gonna be.

"Lighten up, Billy, would you? Why don't you give me a blowjob. You'll feel better."

"How the fuck would I feel better? _You'd_ feel better because you'd be getting your cock sucked."

"What, you don't like seeing me happy?" Joe said, grinning at him. "I thought we were buddies. Come on, get me off." Joe wrapped his hand around his own cock, positioning himself right in Billy's line of sight. Billy watched him stroke himself, get himself hard.

"Fuck off, you stink," Billy said, shaking his head like it was going to stop this from going the way Joe wanted it to go. "Maybe if you fucking bathed once in a while."

"Pussy," said Joe. He knelt up, pressing his knees into Billy's side and leaning over him, one hand on his dick and the other on Billy's sweater, over his chest.

"Asshole," Billy said, but he put his hand on Joe's dick anyway. His hand was still icy from the cold, which Joe wasn't expecting, so he jumped a little when it touched him; Billy took it as a small victory. Joe's skin was really warm -- the fucker was always warm, whereas Billy had to wear eight layers at a time just to keep from freezing.

Joe took his own hand off and left it all to Billy, curling up a little closer around him. He never closed his eyes, and he always watched Billy's face and not Billy's hand on his dick, and he always looked hungry. Billy could always feel Joe's eyes on him, the same as feeling all the eyes in the audience on him when he was onstage and doing something really good with his guitar. He was getting hard, too, but he ignored it, concentrating on working Joe faster.

Joe was breathing heavy; his hips were doing the thing they did when he was close to coming.

Billy said, "Don't get jizz on my sweater--" It was the only one he had left without any holes or big stains; the last thing he needed to deal with was Joe's come.

"Should I aim for your face instead?" Joe grunted out, but he actually listened for once, pointing away at the last minute to shoot his wad onto the mattress.

Joe collapsed beside him, avoiding the wet spot. Billy reached down and opened up his jeans and pulled out his dick. Joe didn't say anything, just watched him and made these little grunting noises, little noises of encouragement -- like talking without any words, and the asshole knew exactly what he was doing, asshole, _asshole_, he knew exactly what it would do to Billy. Joe _always_ knew, that was the thing. Nobody knew him like Joe, nobody ever could--

Jesus, Joe's eyes could feel like a fucking brand.

It only took a minute or two for Billy to come. He closed his eyes and lay still for a minute, taking deep breaths, and then he wiped his sticky hand on Joe's chest; it caught on the hair, making it all shiny and matted. He crawled up off the mattress and pulled his jeans back up and picked his beer off the floor.

"Now will you put on some fucking clothes?" he said, not looking over towards Joe again. He took a long drink.

"Nah," Joe drawled. "I'm good here."

Billy went to the counter and opened the carton of cigarettes, taking out the first pack. He came back over to the mattress and sat down on the edge again while he opened the pack and took out two smokes. He lit both of them together, and then took one from his mouth and handed it to Joe.

They sat, smoking together quietly.

"First thing we're gonna do with that money," Billy said after a while, "is buy a damn electric blanket."

"Aww, don't worry," Joe said. "Your appendages are too fucking valuable to let 'em freeze off, mister rock star."

He reached out and messed roughly with Billy's hair. Billy let him, and took another drag of his cigarette.

* * *

It's snowing in Vancouver the day of Joe Dick's funeral. Billy doesn't go, but his plane is delayed three hours, so he has plenty of time to sit around the airport terminal and watch the flakes come down and down outside the windows.

He imagines the snow on the coffin as they lower it into the ground. White falling all around onto all the fuckers in their black clothes. If anyone is even there; Billy doesn't even know. John's back in the hospital, but Pipe probably went. Maybe some of the music guys they know, the ones who never knew Joe that well, who never got to see just how much of a fuck-up he really was. Maybe they can mourn for him if nobody else can.

Maybe Bruce and the guys are the\re, filming the shit. It probably makes good footage.

Billy thinks maybe he's not going to the funeral to make a final point. _Fuck you, Joe_. Except it's not like Joe's ever gonna hear it. He's got the last word forever now, just the way he would have wanted it. He probably planned it that way.

Maybe Billy's just fucking with himself. He's known Joe Dick since before he was Joe Dick; they were closer than blood. There's no one in his whole fucking life he's ever loved more.

There's no fucking way they're ever gonna get him to stand next to Joe Dick's grave.

He bites his lip, hard enough to open it back where Joe split it, so his blood drips back into his mouth. He holds it there, mixing with his spit, not swallowing. _Fuck you, Joe_, he thinks again. _Fuckyou fuck you fuckyoufuckyoufuckyou_ until the words are all strung together, just strumming through his entire body, icy rage all through his veins like it's the only thing he can feel.

He smokes cigarette after cigarette in the crappy airport smoking room and stares outside at the cloudy gray skies. It's 74 degrees in Los Angeles, according to the TV weather report.

Maybe when he gets home he'll call up that chick from the party two weeks ago, the big-titted one who smiled at him and giggled whenever he said anything.

Maybe he'll call up his lawyer and tell her there's a girl up in Saskatchewan with the same name as him. Being a man, taking responsibility -- two more things Joe never managed to do.

Maybe he'll just go home. Put on his sunglasses and go out and lie on a float in the pool, close his eyes, soak up the sun until he feels warm again. Maybe he'll stay out of the snow forever: stick with sunny L.A. and everything he ever wanted.


End file.
